


To Put Asunder

by mistyzeo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bargaining, Canonical Character Death, Community: samdean_otp, Gen, Going to Hell, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hellhounds, Mini Big Bang Challenge, Mythology - Freeform, Platonic Soulmates, Soulmates, Souls, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-28
Updated: 2011-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU after the end of Season 3. Having failed to keep the hellhounds for coming from Dean, Sam turns to classic literature to find another way to bring his brother back. Sam’s descent into the land of Hades in pursuit of his brother’s soul is about as easy as the legends suggest: unidirectional. Still, Sam knows the track record of the souls allowed to return, and he’s determined to use Dean’s status as a hero to his advantage. But first he has to convince the sullen Summer Queen that they are worth something as a pair, and then he has to trust Dean to follow him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Put Asunder

**Author's Note:**

>   
> [   
> ](http://users.livejournal.com/__hibiscus/199690.html)
> 
> Title from one suggested etymology of the name Orpheus: the hypothetical Proto-Indo-European verb _*orbhao-_ , “to be deprived” from _*orbh-_ , “to put asunder, separate.”

Sam stayed with Bobby for a week after they put Dean in the ground— Sam wouldn't let Bobby burn him, he didn't care how stupid it was— but everything around him sent his heart pounding, aching with the knowledge that Dean wasn't there. He was alone in the room they shared since they were kids, and he couldn't call it sleeping, either. He would wake up shaking, already crying, hands clenched tight in the folds of Dean's jacket, Dean's flannel, Dean's ratty pajama pants— whatever he'd taken guiltily to bed with him. He clutched the fabric that smelled like Dean close to his chest and tried to let his exhausted body rest.

It didn't work.

Bobby caught him three times hunched over the books in the middle of the night, back stiff and eyes red-rimmed, and just laid a hand on his shoulder. Bobby was offering solidarity, but Sam wasn't having any of it.

When he had exhausted Bobby's wealth of demon lore, Sam started reading other books. He didn't have Dean's skill with cars, couldn't help out at the scrap yard, but he couldn't leave either. He couldn't walk away. He read Plato's _Allegory of the Cave_ and found it frustrating and esoteric and accurate. He read _The Book of the Dead_ , a translation from the original hieroglyphics, because it forced him to focus.

He read _The Odyssey_ , hidden away in their— in _his_ — room, and cried again. Dean would love this shit, he thought. He'd bitch and moan and call Sam a geek, but he'd eat it up. War, adventure, women, and loss. Trying to find a way home. He'd call Odysseus a pussy, and an idiot, but he'd love it.

Sam read the _Aeneid_ , since he was in the Classics section of Bobby's library anyway, and Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_ , and an anthology of classic myth. Somehow, somewhere, something clicked.

It had been two weeks. Dean had been gone— dead— in Hell— for two weeks when Sam finally left Bobby's house. He took the Impala and started driving south, just because. He started calling the contacts in Dean's phone, one after another, asking questions.

He ate in roadside diners and slept in roadside motels, like always. He got rooms with one bed. It was easier to remember Dean wasn't there at all than to wake up wondering why the other one was empty. He ordered too many french fries and let the waitress throw them away.

It was another month before he finally got an answer, finally had a thread to follow.

If he couldn't keep Dean from being taken away then he'd just have to go down there and take him back.

+++

The address was on a county road off Route 270 in Oklahoma, and Sam drove fifteen miles before he saw a single building. He slowed down as he approached, the Impala purring beneath him, peering out the windshield to see a number or a name or something. Anything.

It was a low, red, clapboard building with four rusty cars parked out front and a big ice freezer around the side. The front door was painted red, and the sign over the doorway said Dis. All around it the land was empty, flat, and brown.

Sam pulled in haphazardly and parked. The air was hot, sticky with humidity, and Sam's shirt clung to his armpits and lower back. He opened the hatch in the trunk and stared for a while at the slew of weapons there. Where he was going, he might need every weapon in his arsenal. Or they might not do him a single bit of good after all.

He took the basics: salt, holy water, a silver knife. He tucked Dean's .45 into the back of his pants. He didn't bother taking the Colt— what was down there was already dead— and palmed a few, pan-cultural protective charms instead, a flashlight, and three granola bars. Then he closed the hatch. He took his backpack out of the front seat and threw it in the trunk, and then added Dean's tape collection and the five-year-old road maps and the gallon of anti-freeze. Better that no one have anything at all to think about taking from the car. Sam might not be back for a while.

It turned out to be a bar, Sam discovered when he opened the red door and was greeted with a blast of air-conditioned air and the low sound of a jukebox playing 80's pop that would make Dean gag. The lights were low, and as Sam stepped inside a couple of patrons looked up at his entrance. They could see him better than he could see them, but he gave them an awkward nod all the same.

"Howdy," the bartender said, leaning on the bar and looking Sam up and down. "Not from 'round here."

"I'm looking for the door downstairs," Sam said. He fingered the crumpled note in his pocket, hoping.

"You want a drink, first?"

Sam thought about it. He had water, and the granola bars. He didn't want to be caught unawares, eating the food of the dead. There were consequences for that, and it was better to be vigilant now, he imagined. "No, thanks."

The bartender pointed to the far corner of the bar. "Over there, son."

"Thanks," Sam said, and headed for the doorway. It was a little brighter than the rest of the bar, bare florescent tubes casting a weird white glow, and Sam hesitated as he passed first the ladies' room and then the gents’. It didn't look very promising as the entrance to the underworld.

At the end of the hallway there was a third door, painted red but otherwise nondescript. Sam wiped his palms on his jeans, took a deep breath, and decided to take a pee before he went in there, just in case.

After he'd washed his hands and reconsidered that drink for a moment, he stepped back to the red door, reached out, and tried the handle.

It was locked. The brass knob slid uselessly between his fingers, and he couldn't get a grip on it.

For a moment, Sam thought about going back and asking for help. The bartender probably knew the trick. The bartender might be pulling his leg.

Sam shook his head. There was no way he could walk into some watering hole in Oklahoma and say the secret passphrase or what the hell ever, without getting either an honest answer or an ass-kicking. Honest answer it had to be.

Sam rested his forehead against the door. He'd been driving for days, sleeping a few hours here and there in the car, and he was getting into something big. His body ached all over, and even though he'd spent six weeks searching, six useless, post-dated weeks trying to find something to help Dean, this was the stumbling block that made him want to break down again. He'd found a door, literally, and it wouldn't open.

There had to be a trick. He'd forgotten a detail, god forbid, and he was going to have to remember it. Sam closed his eyes, remembering the legends, and tried to picture Odysseus opening the gates.

He needed blood. Of course, these kinds of things always needed blood.

Sam took the silver knife out and hefted it in his hand, testing its weight. He knew it by heart. Rather than slice open the whole of his palm, risking an injury that wouldn't heal and would make fighting— if necessary— damned inconvenient, he nicked the tip of his index finger. Blood welled up in the cut before he even felt the pain, and he smeared it between finger and thumb, and tried the door again.

The knob turned, without so much as a hitch, and the door eased open on silent hinges.

It was dark beyond the door, quiet, and Sam inhaled carefully, expecting to smell— something. Basement, or death, or sulfur. There was no smell. Rather, the air beyond the door seemed clean and untouched, as though a smell would sully it.

Sam turned his head and took a deep breath of beer-scented, peanut-flavored air, and stepped through the door.

The first step was a step down, and then another, and another, and Sam fished out his flashlight and turned it on. As he descended, the door closed behind him with a quiet _click_ , and then he was left with only the narrow beam of yellow light dancing ahead of him, finding the edge of each step just before he reached for it with his foot.

At first, the staircase went straight down. Ten steps below the door, Sam found a landing, and then the staircase curved right around and took him back in the other direction. He did this a few times, winding back and forth and always down, and soon enough the stairs began to simply curve, spiraling in a wide arc that went on and on and on.

Sam had lost faith again in that first moment, the staircase seeming so normal, but it only took a minute for him to realize that he was already far below where a basement floor would be. He was on the right track. He put his hand out and found the wall (damp), and kept a hand near it, just in case. On the other side there was only air. Still no smell.

The little flashlight beam bounced cheerfully along, step after step, as the stairs became cement, and then eventually stone. The repetition of it, stepping down and stepping down, always forward and always lower, reminded Sam of the Tuesday that never ended, until it did. It made him sick to his stomach, and he had to stop. He sat down on the stairs, in the dark, and ate another granola bar. It had chocolate chips.

  


He stuffed the wrapper into his pocket, not daring to litter on the staircase of Hades, and turned the flashlight back on.

At some point, the stairs changed again, from even, square stones to rough-hewn rock, and lost their uniformity. Sam had to put his hand on the wall directly now, and it prickled under his palm. It was still damp, and Sam could feel water dripping down in some places. His footsteps echoed— slap slap slap— until he imagined that someone, or something, was in this place with him.

He stopped again, listening, and tried to shake off the sensation. His flashlight was holding up well, and shining it around him showed him no more than the dark, wet walls and the endlessly spiraling staircase. He risked a look down the center, and the light was lost in the depths. He might be doing this for hours. He might have already done it for hours.

Going back up was going to be a _bitch._

+++

Eventually, some unknowable time later, Sam stepped down and hit bottom, jarring his knee and throwing himself off balance. He clutched at the wall and recovered, and then wiped his hand on his pants in a futile attempt to get the damp, clammy feeling out from between his fingers. Dean would have laughed, called him a bitch.

He looked around, shining the flashlight hopefully, and then turned it off altogether. Something was different down here. Sam glanced above him into darkness, imagining for a moment what the door would look like from below. The stairs spiraled up and up forever, and at the very top there would be a rectangle drawn with light, and behind it would be the music of the jukebox.

Sam's eyes adjusted, if it could be called that in the deep, pitch black of the center of the earth. Soon, though, he started to sense a light source coming from somewhere to his right, and he turned that way, hands out in front of him. There was no sound, save his own footsteps. Even the water running down the walls was silent, stealthy and invisible.

He didn't hit the wall, didn't scrape his knuckles bloody on the rocks, so he kept walking. The ground sloped down slightly under his feet, and Sam thought for an instant, _Farther? Can it even go farther?_

It could, and it did, but only for about two hundred yards. The light grew slowly, easing him into it, and soon he could hear water running. The trickles and rivulets had combined forces somewhere along the way, and Sam was approaching something more substantial. The ground grew softer, sandy, and then Sam was standing on the bank of a dark, rushing river.

He was not alone.

The figure was tall, taller than Sam, and Sam was not used to having to look up at anyone. At first it seemed to be cloaked in shadow, but then Sam realized it was wearing an actual cloak, and was really swathed in a dark fabric that formed a deep hood around what would be its head, fell in folds to the ground past what would be its feet, and draped with a haunting elegance over what would be its arms.

It was looking at Sam, straight at him, without moving. After a moment of consulting all of his knowledge of hunting, all of his memories of his childhood, and deciding that the figure was probably six times as dangerous as it appeared, Sam took a step towards it.

The figure reached out an arm, and a skinny, pale hand appeared, palm facing Sam. Sam stopped. Beyond the figure he could see a narrow canoe rocking in the river's current. He squared his shoulders.

"I need to get across," Sam told the boatman as firmly as he could.

The boatman shook its head slowly, and pointed a long, narrow finger at Sam's chest. In a voice that echoed both in the cavern and inside Sam's mind, it said, _THE HEART STILL BEATS._

"I can pay," Sam said. "Isn't that what you care about?"

The boatman seemed to regard him for a long moment. _SOULS GO IN, WINCHESTER, NEVER OUT._

"I'll deal with that later," Sam said, fishing out the two pennies he had tucked into his front pocket. He held them out to the boatman and jingled them together. If he'd been dead, he would have had them placed on his eyes or in his mouth to ensure his passage. He hadn't done that for Dean, and now he felt strangely guilty, faced with a confirmation of one afterworld beneath the earth rather than another one in the sky.

The boatman stared at his outstretched hand, and then lifted its head. The hood still hid its face, and Sam would have been very surprised to find that it even had a face.

 _IT IS AN OLD CUSTOM_ , the boatman said. _VERY OLD. TIMES HAVE CHANGED._

"Are you serious?" Sam muttered, and dug in his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and offered that instead.

The boatman took it in two pale fingers, and the bill vanished into the folds of its cloak. Sam rolled his eyes.

 _IN YOU GET,_ the boatman said, stepping aside, and Sam approached the edge of the river. The canoe was not tethered to the land, nor was it going anywhere, presumably until the boatman released it. Sam stepped in carefully and sat down as quickly as he could, keeping the rocking to a minimum. The seat was cold and damp under his ass, and not very comfortable, but even still it felt good to sit after his long descent down the staircase.

The canoe hardly dipped as the boatman stepped in beside him, and then with a small jolt it was free from the shore and being borne down the river with the current. The light that had illuminated the small grotto faded quickly, and Sam was left in total darkness, clutching the sides of a mythical boat, plunging down the river towards the entrance of Hades.

+++

Sam wished he could see anything at all. For a while he'd thought he imagined he could see some things, blue and humanoid, shimmering in the water beneath the boat, but they had flickered and vanished, and anyway souls didn't swim to the gates.

They sailed, or drifted, for what felt like at least half an hour, and then suddenly they were approaching light again. Sam wondered if souls needed light to know where they were going, or if it was all for his benefit.

He wondered if anything was ever for his benefit.

The canoe glided towards a dimly illuminated shore and crunched on soft gravel. Sam glanced behind him at the boatman, who continued to be completely unreadable, and then clambered out.

The boatman caught his wrist in its thin grasp, but the grip was like an iron band. Sam thought he could feel the bones of his arm grinding together.

 _SOULS GO IN,_ the boatman said again, _AND RARELY OUT._

"You said souls never go out," Sam said.

 _THERE HAVE BEEN EXCEPTIONS,_ the boatman admitted. _IT HAS BEEN A LONG TIME. DO NOT BE DISAPPOINTED WHEN YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO LEAVE._

Sam's throat felt so tight he almost couldn't swallow, but he managed. "Better that then be up there alone," he said, and turned away. The boatman's grasp eased in an instant, and when Sam looked back the little canoe had already vanished.

+++

The gates of Hades were not particularly formidable. They were about nine feet high and looked like black wrought iron. They were only as wide as a car, Sam estimated, and guarded the entrance to another dank-looking cave. Sam stood looking at them for a minute or so, trying very hard not to move too quickly. It was a dangerous game he was playing, more dangerous than anything he'd done before, and so much more unknown. Werewolves, at least, had confirmable lore. The underworld was shrouded in legend and its power had been diluted by time. The boatman had been telling the truth— it had been a long time since a living soul had come down with good results.

He stood there long enough for the dog lying beside the gate, still and dark and totally unnoticeable until it moved, to lift its head and sniff the air, vaguely curious. Sam started, surprised, but the dog only licked its muzzle and stared at him. A second dog, lying beside it, lifted its head too, and Sam realized there was a third, identical head at about the same moment that the dog stood up.

It was a black dog, dark and sleek, with impossibly broad shoulders in order to accommodate its three heads. Sam could have kicked himself. It wasn't just a dog, or even three fucking dogs, it was The Dog. It looked pretty ordinary, all things considered, for being a three-headed dog of legend. It didn't have a snake for a tail, or eagle wings, nor did it even breathe fire. It just looked at him, its three heads cocked slightly to the side, its six ears perked.

When Sam took a step closer to it, hand outstretched, it trotted towards him, mouths open, tongues lolling. It was chained, and the chain clanked along the ground before rising taut from the dirt as Cerberus reached the end of his lead. The collar, if it could be called that, was wrapped around the place where the dog's three heads met its huge shoulders. Sam sidled closer, trying not to make eye contact, which was difficult when he had three places not to look rather than only one. Cerberus sniffed his knuckles carefully, almost suspiciously, and then took to licking him with one tongue while shoving the middle head into Sam's crotch and keeping the last one at attention, ears pointed towards the river.

Sam bet it hadn't smelled a whole lot of living flesh in its long lifetime. Sweaty balls must be fascinating.

He nudged Cerberus's middle head away gently with his knee and gave the dog an enthusiastic scritch on the two heads that were gracing him with their attention. The third he gave a cursory pat and one ear turned his way, but the dog's eyes stayed gazing past him, watching.

"Can I go in?" Sam asked aloud, and Cerberus’s middle head regarded him with blank incomprehension. Sam couldn't help grinning. Not so fearsome after all. He might pay for that thought later. "I'm going to go in," he told the dog, and it took a few steps away from him, dragging the chain. It sidled a little to the side, out of his way, and watched him with one head while the others looked out for another boat. Sam wondered why there weren't more souls coming, souls all the time, with the rate that people died upstairs. Maybe there were different doors for them to go through. Maybe he'd found the only one allotted for the living.

As he headed toward the wrought iron gates, he thought about that. Heracles had walked into the underworld at Taenarum. Aeneas found the entrance at Avernus in Italy. Maybe it was all an illusion: each entryway guarded by a different version of Charon, a different version of the dog. Hell was what you made it.

The gates opened silently at the gentle pressure of his hand, swinging inward to usher him into long, dark passage. Sam glanced over his shoulder at Cerberus, who only barked at him cheerfully and panted open-mouthed. It wasn't there to guard the way in, at any rate. He could only hope it would be as mildly curious when he tried to work his way back out. Yeah, right. He needed a dog treat for the ultimate hellhound.

Sam's footsteps echoed dully as he started down the passageway. He could feel the heavy weight of the gun at his back, and the flask of holy water in his jean pocket. His knife was easily accessible at his hip, and the packet of salt was wedged tightly in his other pocket. His overshirt was damp from the trip in the boat, but it was much cooler down here under the earth than it had been upstairs. Even with all the familiar amenities, the most useful tools of his trade, he was uncertain. He'd been trained from childhood to use adrenaline to his advantage, turn the body's panic response into a weapon in itself, but this place wasn't raising quite enough red flags. It was spooky, but so far it had not been unwelcoming, and it took a lot more than dark places and long stairs to work Sam into a state of heightened alarm. And that was what made him nervous.

+++

Sam's visibility decreased as he walked and slowly became enveloped in cold, white fog. His footsteps became muffled, and the little flashlight was no help, shining off the water molecules right back into his eyes. There was some kind of inexplicable illumination around him that allowed him to see a few feet in every direction, but it was useless with all the precipitation. _One hundred percent humidity,_ Sam thought aimlessly.

He had been walking for what seemed like another half hour, and was wondering whether he should be feeling hungry again, when a faint noise behind him made him freeze. He hadn't been very stealthy, practically strolling in the face of the complete unknown, and a sudden rush of apprehension made him think perhaps he'd been careless. He was here for a reason— Dean was waiting for him. He couldn't ruin the whole thing by getting murdered by Hell's pets.

Sam turned slowly, peering around him. The fog swirled as he moved, drifting aimlessly around the passage, which he realized he no longer knew the size of. He could be walking into nothingness. He might never find the way back.

As he looked around himself, Sam saw figures begin to appear, almost as if they were condensing right out of the fog. Sam reached for the knife and slid it into his hand, putting his arms up in front of him at the same time to protect his face. Hell was full of souls, and Sam had no reason to expect them to be benevolent.

Suddenly he realized he recognized them, some of them, and it only made him clutch the knife harder. Bela Talbot gave him a cursory glance as she stepped past him, little more than air. He imagined he could smell her perfume, but the scent faded quickly as she moved away. Then he saw the technician, god, what was his name? Who traced the phone calls for them when Dean was getting calls from their Dad, almost a year after his death, too close to Dean's appointment with the hellhounds to make Sam comfortable. He was still awkward and scrawny, and Sam swallowed hard around the guilt that stuck in his throat.

It was a test. This had to be a test. If he turned back now, deterred by the sight of people he and Dean had failed to save, he would never make it. Never find Dean.

Sam turned on his flashlight, feeling like it was an act of defiance, and started walking again. The fog moved around him, forming and reforming into the shapes of people, faces he barely recognized. They had long, sad, serious expressions as they drifted by, intent on somewhere beyond Sam. They didn't seem to recognize him, which was a blessing: he'd rather they stare past him impassively than come to him screaming, blaming him for their deaths.

Not that it wasn't his fault. It was just nicer not to be reminded.

His knees and ankles ached. He and Dean were fit, sure, kept in shape by their father's relentless training and later by Dean's obsession with keeping up, keeping on, even without their dad around. Sam could run a mile on a twisted ankle, but walking in the underworld for hours had never been part of the regimen.

Sam stopped walking. He crouched on the floor, giving his knees a rest, and unwrapped one of the granola bars. It had chocolate chips in it, and peanut butter, but the whole thing was bland, like the taste had been sucked right out of it. It didn’t even smell like peanut butter, and Sam finished it with a mixture of disappointment and alarm. He couldn’t be sure what else this place might be leeching out of him. He tucked the wrapper away into his pocket and stood again, shaking feeling back into his feet.

He walked for a while more in silence, ignoring the faces that passed him, and then without any warning his parents were there, hand in hand, moving past him without seeming to touch the ground.

"Wait," Sam said suddenly, his voice sounding rough even to himself, "wait, please!" But they kept going, looking serenely blank. His father looked the same as they had when Sam had seen him at the Devil's Gate, and his mother was in her nightgown. Had that been a trick? Or had he and Dean let them pass from one kind of hell to another?

Why couldn't they _see_ him?

"Dad," he called, louder, "Dad! Mom!"

Still nothing.

He ran, hurried to catch up with them, but their gazes slid right past him, like he was no more substantial than the fog. Now he was wishing the rest had seen him; he would have put up with their blame, their accusations, if only to be allowed to speak to his parents again. He should be given a pass because they were related by blood.

Of _course._ It was all about blood in this damn place. Following the path his insubstantial parents were taking, Sam fumbled the knife out of his pocket and opened another cut on his hand. He held his palm out, blood welling up and starting to run down his fingers, and his parents came to a slow stop.

"Dad," Sam said, "can you hear me?"

They turned to look at the blood pooling in the cup of his hand, ghostly pale faces furrowing with concern, and Mary reached out with one delicate finger, and then touched the finger to her lips. The moment she tasted the blood she blossomed with warmth, color filling her face, and she looked up into Sam's eyes with recognition.

"Sammy," she breathed, "baby, what are you doing here?"

"Hi Mom," he said. Something inside his chest ached, the way it always did when he looked at a picture of Mary and John, or when Dean got good and drunk and was willing to talk about her, or when they'd finally found the demon that had killed her. She was just a woman to Sam, a face without a personality. Sometimes he doubted Dean remembered her as well as he claimed to, but Dean and Dad had been so devoted to her memory that he never dared to voice that particular thought.

"You're not—" she paused, frowning at him. "You're not supposed to be here, are you?" Her nightgown was spotlessly clean, not soaked with blood.

"No," Sam said. "I came for Dean."

"John," Mary said, turning around. "John, come here."

John Winchester approached, his gaze passing Sam smoothly and stopping on Mary, mildly inquisitive. Her index finger was still dotted with the blood from Sam's cut finger, and with it she touched John's lips.

"Sam," he said, finally seeing him. "What's going on, son?"

"Dean," Sam said. "I have to get him back."

"I saved him," John said. "That was— that was the whole point. He woke up, in the hospital, didn't he?"

Sam took a breath. More than two years had passed since the car accident that had totaled the Impala and put Dean in a coma for three days. "Yeah, he did."

Sam remembered the look on Dean’s face when he saw the car after he woke up, and how intently he'd worked on putting her back together. He missed Dean so fiercely right then, and an ache inside his chest that had never gone completely now flared up and threatened to consume him.

"We, um," Sam said, swallowing hard. "We found the demon. Do you remember that? You helped us get rid of him for good."

John's frown softened slowly, and then he began to smile. "That's right," he said, "I did. You boys did such a good job."

Sam's own smile was somewhat half-hearted. "Yeah, I guess we did."

"Well, what happened?"

"I died," Sam said. "I died, and Dean made a deal to bring me back."

John stared at him as if he'd never heard anything more ridiculous or insane. Sam knew the feeling.

"He made a deal? With a demon?"

Sam nodded. He couldn't meet his father's eyes just then, caught up once again in the crushing knowledge that it was his fault. He shouldn't have let Jake get the jump on him. He shouldn't have let Dean be so fucking stupid. He should have tried harder to find an answer before the hounds came for him. Dean had been gone six weeks; even with Sam's blood on his lips there was no telling what he would remember.

"I'm getting him back," Sam said.

"That's not how it works, Sammy," Mary said. She looked sad again, trying to smile at him, and he fought the urge to scowl. She didn't understand him and Dean. She didn't know what her death had done to their family, how it had shaped them, how it had tied Dean and Sam together so tightly that Dean had promised himself to hell and Sam had followed him down.

"I have to try," he said. He was wasting time. Dean was waiting for him. "I have to go, now."

"Sammy, wait," Mary said, reaching for him, but he sidestepped her grasp and gave his dad a nod. John watched him go with a strange expression on his face, somewhere between irritated and impressed, but made no move to follow. Sam looked over his shoulder one last time, saw his mother holding both of his father's hands in hers, and knew they were all right. So long as they were together, they were all right.

Until he had Dean, he wouldn't be.

+++

 

The fog began to dissipate as Sam left his mother and father behind, and Sam was able to see the curves and shadows of the landscape around him. The fog had been so all-encompassing that he had, it appeared, been walking out into open space for some time without knowing it. That he hadn't fallen into a ditch or an underworld river was more than luck: the geography of this place was no more defined than the surface of the ocean.

Someone didn't want him getting into trouble; someone wanted him to find his way.

The fog vanished entirely as Sam reached the edge of a cliff, and then he could see the landscape that stretched out a hundred feet below of him, lit up with fires that seemed to be burning everywhere and going nowhere. He stood at the top of a ridge, looking down across five rivers that twisted and turned through the rocks like ribbons of tar. One of them came out just below him, pouring smoothly out of the cliff, and might have been the one he'd ridden on. The others originated out of the darkness, curling toward each other and all of them headed for the center, where the rocks rose again from the flat plain to form a narrow tower dotted with fires up its sides. A seething mass of pale fog covered the ground from cliff's edge to palace gates, and Sam realized he was seeing the souls of the dead, mingling silently with one another as they drifted past one another without noticing. They were pale and insubstantial, just wisps of humanity left after the body was gone.

The path under Sam's boots was worn into a fine, gray dust, but when or by whom he didn't dare imagine. The climb to the bottom of the plain was easy, the path making a few shallow switch-backs and carrying him neatly to the bottom near the place where the river emptied itself almost silently into its bed. The souls parted as he approached, but took no notice of him at all.

Their faces were all unfamiliar. After the incident in the fog, Sam worried that every soul he came across would be one that he hadn't been able to rescue, but this was just walking in a crowd of strangers. They paid him no more attention than they might if he were walking through an airport. They made no sound as they passed him, and all he could hear was the tread of his footsteps and the rushing of the water. Even the fire was quiet, burning silently from its impossible, rocky origins. The space had no ceiling, or if it did the light from the fires only illuminated so high, and it was easy to forget he was underground.

If, of course, it was as simple as that. Which it wasn't.

The banks of the rivers led Sam inexorably toward the palace, situated directly ahead of him, built from the rock that surrounded it. It rose abruptly from the plain of souls, black and foreboding, its spiky spires soaring high above the rivers, and dotted with innumerable tiny, glowing windows, as if the thing itself was burning inside. Its front gate gaped like a mouth filled with teeth, and that too had fire behind it.

Sam found he couldn't change his path if he wanted to, his feet following a command that was not entirely his own. The gate came closer and closer, yawning open to admit him, and he crossed another stretch of black, rushing water on a tongue of rock that led him straight down into the gullet.

The interior of the palace was as silent as the exterior, and still Sam felt like he knew where he was going. Flames licked up the walls, leaving sooty streaks on the rocks, but no torches lined the hallway. He passed half a dozen dark doorways, pausing briefly to peek through them, but the pull of his goal kept him from staying too long, and the ground began to slope upward again. Sam started to hear whispers, rustling, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. The holy water and salt in his pockets felt like heavy weights dragging him down, but he knew better than to get rid of them. The silver knife at his belt began to vibrate gently, trembling in its sheath. Sam put a hand on it to calm it, and the vibrating quieted.

Doors appeared out of the gloom ahead of him: a huge set of double doors that were as black as the rest of the palace, but shone with a glow that even the fires couldn't match. They fairly sparkled, and Sam was reminded of the chunk of obsidian lava Dean had shown him once, when they were tracking ghouls in Oregon. The rock had fit inside the cup of Dean's hand, gleaming like it had been polished, and as smooth as glass. Dean had given it to him and he'd put it in his pocket, only to ruin those pants not six hours later, sacrificed to the ghouls' sharp claws. Dad had thrown them out before Sam had a chance to rescue the piece of rock.

The doors slid open. Sam was grateful he could still hear his own footsteps, the rustle of his clothing, because still, except for the whisper of air in the hallway, nothing in this place made a sound.

Sam walked into what could only be considered a throne room. It was long and high, lined with black columns. There were windows on either side that looked out onto the plain, and now Sam could see that underneath each window burned a spout of unearthly fire that was visible from the outside. At the end of the room, ahead of him, were two tall, black chairs: the one on the right was empty, but in the one on the left, situated slightly lower, sat a woman. A pale girl stood by her side, holding a plate in her hands on which sat a bunch of grapes and a goblet.  She was Dean’s type.  Not the girl: the girl was slim and demure, her chin tucked to her chest, nothing interesting about her.  But the woman on the throne, she was worth looking at.  Her face was soft and young and beautiful, like the girls Sam watched Dean flirt with in high school, unlined by any kind of human age and colored pink as if in the bloom of her prime.

"Pomegranates not in season?" Sam asked. His voice sounded awkward, too loud in the space, and he instantly regretted starting with something so obviously disrespectful.

The Queen of the Underworld looked at him, tilting her head to the side, and dismissed the girl with a wave of her hand. "Sam Winchester," she said. "Forgive my husband, he is away on business."

"I came to speak with you, actually."

"You took your time about it," Persephone said.

"I'm sorry."

"You've been here before," she said, "couldn't you find your way?"

Sam stared at her. He knew he was gaping. He knew it wasn't a very attractive expression on his face. "Excuse me?"

The queen sighed delicately. "Of course," she said, "you wouldn't remember your time down here. It was only a matter of a few earthly hours, anyway, and your journey back was so abrupt and unnatural."

Sam looked at his feet. Dean's way of solving problems was usually the quickest and the least well-planned. His brother was nothing if not rash.

"Where are the demons?" he asked.

"The demons?"

"The ones that escape, that come up to our world and, I don't know, cause trouble?"

"Ah." Persephone drew her arms in to her chest, her sleeves flowing over the arms of the chair, and folded her hands neatly in her lap. "Tartarus does have its fissures, and we cannot close all of them. The souls that reside there deserve its every, shall we say, nuance, but they do not generally enjoy it."

"Is that where Dean is?" Sam didn't want to know the answer, but he had to.

"No, child," the queen said. She almost smiled at him.

It was summer, and Sam wondered why she was down here instead of above, with her mother. He wondered if that even mattered anymore, when there was no one left to believe the myths.

"Dean Winchester was a sinner, in a certain sense, but he was not a bad man. He had faults, that much is true, but never so many as to require an eternal punishment, nor never against any person save himself. Dean Winchester is in Elysium, and he is happy there."

Sam shook his head. "You know why I'm here."

"Of course I do," Persephone said. "You are one of few, Sam Winchester, and no living soul comes down here just for a visit. You want him back."

"No, ma'am," Sam said. Persephone blinked. "I need him back."

"Why?"

"He's my brother."

Persephone rolled her eyes. "He is indeed, but he is also your mother's son, and there are many brothers here who might wish to be rescued from death."

"It's not that," Sam said. "I don't want to rescue him. I thought he’d be in— in the pit, but if he’s in Elysium then I know it’s better than up there. It's quieter down here, that's for sure." He glanced out the fire-lined window at the white fog of souls below, his throat suddenly closing up around the weak joke. "But me and Dean… we don't work separately. He made a deal to have me back, and now I've got to do the same. I'll do anything."

"They said Orpheus was a coward for wanting his wife returned to him rather than being willing to follow her into Hades. Would you stay here?" Persephone asked. "You were not supposed to leave, Sam. Would you stay with him?"

Sam closed his eyes. "Dean and I saved two hundred and thirteen lives when we kept a plane from going down a couple years back. When I was fifteen, we emptied a school full of kids while my dad wrestled a hobgoblin in the parking lot. When I was six months old, Dean carried me in his arms across our front lawn while our mother burned to death." He opened his eyes again and looked into the queen's face. "Yeah, I'd stay with him, but we're not done up there. I'm no good without him, and the world will go to shit without us."

Persephone regarded him for a long moment, her face smooth and impassive. Finally she said, "You think very highly of yourselves."

"I do," Sam said. "There's a lot of bad that needs dealt with, and we're the best."  It was the truth.  Other hunters had come into the business by accident, but they had been born to it.  Baptism of fire, Sam had always thought.  At fifteen he could shoot a gun better than his father could, and at twenty seven he might save the world.  Now, all he knew was that he would need Dean by his side to do it.

"Come," said the queen, rising from her throne. "I have some things I must show you."

She held out her hand and Sam took it. Her palm was cool in his, her fingers delicate and gracile, but her grip strong. She smiled briefly at him, but it was no more satisfying a smile than a single sip of water in the August sun.

"You wish me to understand that your brother is a hero," the queen said. She led Sam away from the throne and the great hall, toward a doorway off to the side. This opened to a long hall lined with windows, out of which Sam could see the rock-scape he had walked through: the rivers twisting and turning below, the fires forever burning, and the white mist of souls that drifted in between. "We have many people who believed they were heroes," the queen continued. "And many heroes whose time of service has ended, and who are content to live here without fear, without danger, without expectations. Things do not change here, Sam. What makes you believe your brother wishes to return with you?"

"He's—" Sam said, "he's my brother. I need him."

"But does he need you?"

Sam didn't look at her. He looked out the window and thought of their parents, hand in hand, finally together. "Yes," he said. "We're kind of a matched set."

Persephone smiled again. She raised one long, white arm, and pointed. As Sam watched, the landscape seemed to shift, and the souls beneath parted and reformed until Sam could see them gathering on the banks of the fourth river.

"This is Lethe," the queen said. "Your brother has tasted it many times. He will not remember you."

"He will," Sam said.

Persephone raised her delicate eyebrows at him. "Will he indeed?"

"All due respect," Sam said, "he will."

She shrugged, and let her arm drop. "Ask him."

Sam looked. The blur of souls moved again, answering Persephone's will, and suddenly Dean was there, at the water's edge, as pale and insubstantial as the rest of them. He was wearing his favorite t-shirt, a faint imitation of black, and Sam knew it was worn at the seams and soft from a hundred washes. It had been ripped to shreds by the hounds, but the tears no longer showed. His jeans were torn at the knee, and Sam remembered that fall: something had been chasing them in the forest, and Dean went down over a branch and cut up his knee and the heels of his hands. He'd been more upset about the jeans than the chunk of skin the ghost nearly took out of his scalp when he stood up again. His boots were old and worn, the high-tops not as supportive as they had been, but Dean had always refused to get rid of them. They hadn't done him any extra good running from the hounds.

As Sam watched, Dean knelt on the torn knee and dipped his cupped hands into the river. He lifted them to his face, mouth open, and Sam shouted, "Dean, no!"

Dean paused, hands halfway to his lips, and Persephone made a small, considering noise beside Sam.

"Dean!" Sam shouted again. "Dean, stop!" He turned to the queen. "I have to go to him."

"As you wish," she said, touching his elbow, and then they were beside the river. Dean's pale face regarded Sam with a mix of confusion and alarm, and Sam reached out to him.

"Dean, it's me."

Dean shied away from his hands, from his warmth, and the water from the river ran out of his fingers, down his elbows, wetting his shirt. Sam reached again, caught the corner of his shirt sleeve, and Dean let out a sharp breath.

"It's Sammy," Sam said, lowering his voice and clutching hard at the inch of cotton in his fist. "It's your brother."

"He does not remember," Persephone said from behind him.

"Dean, you gotta," Sam said. With his other hand he pulled the silver knife from his belt, and Dean's ghostly eyes widened. He tried again to pull away, to disappear into the teeming throng of souls that swirled around them, but Sam held firm. He cut the thumb that was holding Dean's shirt, and he cut it deep. The pain took a moment to register, but he resolutely ignored it.

Dean had seen the grimace, though, and his expression softened. The fear melted out of his eyes, and he turned towards Sam. Dean cradled Sam's hand in both of his, and they were chilly against Sam's skin. The blood from Sam's thumb ran down his hand, gathering like the water in the grooves of his palm.

"It's me," Sam whispered. "Please, Dean, you have to remember. You have to see me." His chest was tight with anguish: his brother, in front of him, looking at him with the expression of worry and exasperation Sam knew so well, and still not recognizing his face. Dean lifted Sam's hand up, lips parting, and Sam wondered through the stinging in his eyes what the obsession was with fresh blood.

 _Life,_ he thought.

Dean's face warmed up instantly, the way Mary's had, and suddenly he met Sam's gaze. His green eyes blazed, recognition and hope filling his face, and he dropped Sam's hand to pull him into a hug.

It might have gone on forever: Sam wrapped in his brother's arms, clinging to him like a lifeline, like Dean was the one doing the rescuing. Dean could have crushed Sam's ribs and Sam wouldn't have cared. He buried his face in his brother's neck and took a deep breath.

Dean smelled wrong, like death. He was supposed to smell like leather and sweat and gun oil, like driving with the windows down, like stale motel rooms, like wash-worn flannel shirts. Instead Sam just smelled the damp rock and faint odor of sulfur that had filled the air since he walked out of the fog.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, right in his ear.

Persephone said, "Well." She hadn't believed him. He’d showed her.

"You're not supposed to be here," Dean said.

Sam pulled away to look Dean in the face, keeping his hands on Dean's shoulders, keeping him close enough he could imagine the heat from his body. "Yes, I am."

Dean's face crumpled, despair screwing up his eyes and twisting his mouth.

"No," Sam said quickly, "I'm not dead."

"What the hell do you mean, then, you're supposed to be here?" Dean demanded.

Sam grinned, suddenly full of relief. Dean recognized him, and he even sounded the same. Hades had not changed him as much as Persephone thought it had.

"Relax, dude. I came to get you."

Dean scowled, trying to pull out of Sam's grip. Sam let him go, let him turn away, scrub a hand down his face. "That's fucked up."

"Persephone says I can take you home."

Persephone cleared her throat. "I did not promise you anything, Sam Winchester."

"Come on," Sam said, turning his chin towards her without taking his eyes off Dean, "he remembers me. Let me take him."

"My husband will not be pleased."

Sam looked at her now. Dean was watching him, arms crossed over his chest, almost smirking. "I don't care," Sam said. "There's precedent for this, don't you get it? He's a hero, I need him topside."

Dean punched Sam in the arm, good and hard, startling him.  "Shut up, dude, I’m not some hero."

"Fuck you, Dean, you’re a goddamn hero."  Sam recognized the squirrely look on his face: embarrassment, disbelief, discomfort.  Sam huffed in irritation and latched onto Dean’s shirt again, pulling him close.  "I don’t care what kind of bullshit you want to think about yourself, or the stuff you’ve done for the world, but if I have to sell you as a hero to get you back that’s what I’m going to fucking do.  Now don’t argue with me."

Dean raised both eyebrows in a satisfying show of surprise, and Sam fought back a smile.  Thank god: that was still his brother.

Persephone still looked skeptical.  Sam wanted to strangle her.  Her hands were folded in front of her, and a non-existent breeze gently lifted the tips of her hair and the edges of her dress.  "You came a long way, Sam," she said.

"Yes ma’am, and if it’s all right with you, I’d like to get a move on getting back upstairs.  My car might get towed."

Dean snorted.  " _My_ car," he said.

"You told me to take care of her," Sam said, meeting Dean’s eyes.  His chest clenched tight again, and he grabbed onto Dean’s hand.  "She needs you back, Dean.  I need you back.  I don’t exist without you."

Dean bit his lip, uncomfortable, but he held onto Sam’s fingers just as tight as Sam held his.  They both looked at the queen.  Sam could feel his heart thundering in his chest, and he squeezed Dean’s hand harder, willing him to feel it as well, as if he could just give his life to Dean right then and there.

They’d be caught in a spiral, Sam thought, of pointless, endless sacrifice.  That was who they were.

Persephone’s face softened.  Her brow smoothed out and her lips turned up in a pale imitation of a smile.  She loosened her shoulders and glanced toward the untouchable ceiling of her great, unwanted, underground domain.

"Very well," she said.  "You have been the most entertaining thing to come into my presence in a very long time, and I am always in need of entertainment."

Sam could feel Dean looking at him now, considering, maybe a little impressed.   _I didn’t fuck her,_ Sam tries to think at him.  When he risked a glance at Dean, Dean was smirking.  He gave the tiniest shake of his head, and Dean’s smirk relaxed into a teasing smile.  He gave Sam’s fingers a squeeze, acknowledging.

"But Sam," Persephone said, drawing his gaze again. There was always a ‘but.’  "As I am trusting you— that your brother is a hero, that you are ineffective without him—" and, really, ouch, "—I expect you to trust me."  Sam knew this was coming.  This would be the hardest part.  "You must lead the way out.  And you cannot look back for Dean, or you will lose him forever, and you will not be allowed to come down here twice."

Sam swallowed hard.   _Trust._  He had to trust her.  He had to trust Dean to follow him home.

"Fine," he said.

"Wait a minute," Dean said.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam snapped.  He felt like he coudn’t turn his head.   _Starting when?_ he wondered.  Now?   _Now?_

"One more look," Persephone said, as if reading his mind.  She probably could.

Sam looked.  Dean smiled at him, proud of him.  His eyes were gloriously green and crinkled at the corners.  The freckles across his nose and cheeks were midwinter-faint, but Sam could still see them.  Dean’s lips were pink and damp from the touch of his tongue.  His hair was scruffy, a little uneven—that was Sam’s fault, he didn’t wield the electric razor as neatly as Dean did.  He looked healthy, too: the scratches from the hellhounds, the ones that made Sam retch and heave as he carried Dean’s body up the stairs to Bobby’s house, are gone; his shoulders were strong and broad; his legs were firm and sturdy.  He was perfect.  Sam had won.

"Okay," he said, still gazing into his brother’s face, "I’m ready."  He closed his eyes, the image of Dean smiling indulgently at him burned into the backs of his eyelids, and turned to Persephone.

"Then go," she said, and swept her arm open across the plains, offering them to him.  Sam looked, orienting himself by the castle, and started to walk.

+++

For a while, he talked.  He told Dean about burying him, and how he wasn’t sure what they were going to do with him when they got back.  Maybe the body would be gone.  Maybe Dean would wake in a shallow grave and have to dig himself out.

Sam shivered at the idea, a cold tingle running down his spine.  He couldn’t imagine anything worse.  And Dean might not remember what had happened, either, and come up thinking he was alone.  Christ.

Dean responded, too, which reassured Sam.  He laughed at Sam’s narration of reading the _Odyssey_ and deciding to try it.  He congratulated Sam on his methodical work in finding the door, but he scolded him when he figured out how little Sam had slept.

"You gotta take care of yourself, man," he said, his voice just behind Sam’s left shoulder, "otherwise what good are you to me?"

"I’m fine," Sam said, keeping his eyes on his feet and smiling.  "I’m fine now."

"Damn straight," Dean said.

Sam climbed the ridge with the sound of Dean’s boots crunching on the gravel, and almost slipped, looking over his shoulder at the Underworld spread out behind them.

"Jesus!" Dean snapped.  "Eyes front, Sammy.  Some of us want to get the hell out of here."

Sam snorted, and the laughter spilled out of him.  It felt so good to be happy: it was a little like the time he and Dean smoked pot behind their house in Michigan at the end of the summer in ‘96, and he couldn’t stop giggling.  Everything had been so wonderful, that night.  "Sorry," he said.

"Whatever," Dean said.  "Let’s get a move on."

The fog spilled out of the tunnel Sam had walked through and drifted down the face of the cliff in a fading curtain.  Inside the tunnel, though, it was thick and enveloping.  Sam had already forgotten the touch of it on his skin, and now he felt clammy.

"Sam," Dean said sharply, his voice rising.  "I can’t see you."

"Keep walking," Sam said.  He closed his eyes for a minute, clenching his fists to resist the urge to turn around.  "Come on.  Just follow me."

"Are we allowed to hold hands?" Dean asked.

Sam’s heart filled to bursting.  Dean sounded so annoyed.  It was so perfect.  "Chick flick moment, much?"

"Shut up."

"No rule against it," Sam said, offering his hand behind him.  Dean’s fingers touched his briefly, but he felt like he couldn’t get a grip.

"Forget it," Dean said, his voice tight.  "I don’t want to risk it."

So Sam talked again as they walked blindly through the ghost-fog, telling stories Dean had told him, about girls he’d slept with, or hunts he’d done while Sam was in California.  He ignored the faces in the mist, but he could hear Dean exclaiming quietly every so often, a name Sam had forgotten, or "Sammy, do we know that guy?"

"Yes," Sam said, not looking.  "This is the specially catered tunnel of fuck ups.  I saw Bela on my way in."

"Shit," Dean breathed.

"Keep walking."

+++

The fog dissipated as quickly as it had gathered, and the first gate loomed up in front of them.  Sam let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.  This was going better than he had expected: the walk back was always shorter.  Not that he recognized a single landmark on the way, but this— the gate was promising.  

"Dean?"

"I’m here, Sammy," Dean said.  He sounded like he was standing right behind Sam, and Sam imagined he could feel the soft, gusting pressure of Dean’s breath on the back of his neck.  He imagined he could smell Dean’s nearness.  He reached back, finding a grip on Dean’s old t-shirt, and gave it a tug just to feel the fabric shifting in his fingers.  Dean snorted.  "Okay, all right, no need to get all grabby."

"Just making sure," Sam said.  "Come on."

He let go and stepped toward the gate.  The moment he was within arms’ length he was startled by the loud, enthusiastic barking of the Dog.  Cerberus came bounding their direction, dragging his huge chain and tossing his three heads. He was snarling now, teeth bared and dripping, and his eyes gleamed.

"Shit, what the fuck is that?" Dean choked, grabbing at Sam. His fingers dug painfully into the flesh of Sam's back and arm, and Sam curled his fingers around Dean's.

"It's Cerberus," Sam said, "Dean, it's fine, calm down."

Dean was shaking so hard Sam could feel it vibrating through him. "It's coming right for me," he said, small and panicked. Sam's chest clenched painfully, squeezing too tight like Dean’s hands. He knew, intellectually, that there had been times that Dean had been afraid, times he could hear Dean in his head screaming his name, but this?  Dean was supposed to be the protector, the guardian.  Cerberus was barking, a deep, booming noise, and jumping up against the gate and rattling the iron. All three of his wide mouths were snapping and biting at the air.

No.  Sam had to do it now.  He cupped his hands around Dean’s and wished he could see him, look into his eyes and show him it was all right.  Instead, he said loudly, "Dean, man, it’s just a dog."

"You don’t know," Dean said, "you don’t know, Sammy, you don’t— it hurts, it hurts so much, it’s gonna get inside me—"

"Dean," Sam shouted, over the dog’s increasingly aggressive barking, "be quiet," and then he looked the Dog in its center pair of eyes and ordered, "Down!"

Cerberus paused, mouths open, paws on the gate.  It stared at Sam for a second, and then began barking again.

Sam kicked the gate hard, rattling it on its hinges.  Cerberus backed off, startled, and allowed Sam to pull the gate open a little.  Sam stuck his foot out, kicking at the Dog, and held as tight as he could to Dean’s hands.  He pulled his brother through the crack, and Dean’s quiet noise of displeasure was eerily similar to Cerberus’s whine of confusion.

"We’re leaving," Sam told Cerberus.

Cerberus barked again, just once this time.

"Dean, don’t move."

"You can’t leave me here," Dean whispered.

Sam almost gave himself whiplash not looking at his brother.  Dean sounded wrecked now, like a child.  He sounded like the time he’d been drunk, after he made his deal, and Sam had yelled at him again about leaving him behind and how they were supposed to take care of each other, and how he shouldn’t be wasting his time fucking around when they could be looking for a solution.  Dean had told him, in a voice like ice, to pull the car over.  He’d puked on the side of the road, whole body heaving, and then cried silently into the flannel that Sam was wearing (it was Dean’s).  Finally he’d lifted his head and wiped his face with his hand, and said, "Okay, we can go," so hoarse it was almost a whisper.

"I’m not leaving you," Sam said firmly.  "Cerberus, get outta here."  He aimed another kick, and when the Dog started to step toward him again, he let go of Dean’s hand to pull the silver knife out.

Cerberus snarled with all three mouths and backed off, its six eyes gleaming red.  It lowered the front half of its body, teeth bared, but stopped in that low crouch instead of lunging at them.  Sam glared at it, keeping eye contact with its center pair of eyes, and held the knife out.  They circled each other slowly, Sam keeping Dean behind him with just the pressure of his palm on Dean’s elbow, and soon they were past the Dog.  Cerberus growled again, but stayed where it was as Sam backed Dean towards the river.

"Stay behind me," he warned.  "I’m going to turn around."

Dean huffed an uncomfortable little laugh, and gripped Sam’s bicep from behind.  "Dog’s still there."

"I know."  If they could only get to the river, maybe the boatman would reappear.  Otherwise they’d have to swim.

 _THAT WILL NOT BE NECESSARY,_ the boatman said.

Sam jumped, almost looked over his shoulder again, and caught himself just in time.  Dean’s fingers tightened in the cuff of his shirt.

The boatman sounded vaguely annoyed, if that were possible.   _I AM INSTRUCTED TO CARRY YOU BACK,_ he said.   _CONGRATULATIONS, SAM WINCHESTER: YOU HAVE ACHIEVED THAT WHICH MANY WISH FOR._

"Thanks," Sam said, keeping his eyes on the Dog.  "Get in, Dean."

Dean’s hands vanished, and for a moment Sam couldn’t hear him at all.  The current of the river rushed past endlessly, and across from him the Dog still growled, rumbling its displeasure deep in its chest.  Sam kept the knife out, visible, and stepped backward into the water lapping on the rocks.

Then Dean’s hands were back, guiding him, and Sam settled back against his brother.  Dean’s knees were on either side of Sam’s hips, and Sam closed his eyes before he palmed Dean’s kneecaps, just in case he wasn’t allowed to see any part of him.  It doesn’t matter, though, because Dean was warm and solid behind him, pressing against him from hip to shoulder, and resting his cheek on Sam’s back.

Having Dean touch him at all was unusual— Sam’s memories of the last six months included a lot of him sitting up at night on the computer, and Dean bitching at him to just quit it already, and not nearly enough contact between them.  He remembered when they were kids in the backseat of the Impala, tucked together under dad’s coat, Dean beside him.  While Dean was gone, Sam thought a lot about the pressure of his brother’s hand on his shoulder, or his feet knocking into Sam’s under a diner booth table, or the nimble workings of his brother’s fingers as they freed Sam from yet another awkward bondage situation.  Monsters loved to tie him up, Dean joked, and wondered aloud if Sam understood the true appeal of some good kink action.  Sam had declined to answer.

Now Dean’s hands were steady on Sam’s arm, on his back, just touching, just letting Sam know he was still there.  It was more reassuring than Sam cared to admit, because once he and Dean stopped talking all he could hear was the slick rush of the inky water and the creak of the ferryman’s pole.  Even the boatman was silent— as the grave, Sam thought, disappointed with himself— and Sam’s own breathing sounded loud in his ears.  Dean’s soul was not breathing, or shifting around, or doing any of the things that Dean would be doing.  He was just sitting quietly, stoically, waiting.

Sam was sick of waiting.  He was tired.  Sitting in the boat wasn’t helping: it was the first break he’d gotten in what felt like days.  The ride downriver had been fast, and Sam had been on edge with tension and the unknown, but now he had his prize practically in hand and he was exhausted.  He had to stay focused, for Dean’s sake.

The river sank into full darkness, and Sam closed his eyes and let his head hang.  Behind him Dean’s hands shifted, curling around his shoulders, and Dean started to rub his neck.  It felt like a strange reward for his hard work, but a reward all the same.  The tension began to seep out of him, melting away into the water, as Dean’s strong fingers dug into the tightness of his neck and back.  The boatman was exuding a kind of silent disapproval, even in the dark, and Sam suppressed a shiver.  Not very well, perhaps, because Dean stroked a hand down his spine reassuringly.

Finally they were drawing up to a flat place that looked just like every other flat place along the shore, except that the light was stronger here and Sam could see the path he had taken from the staircase.

"Almost there," he told Dean.

"Lead on," Dean said.  "We don’t need to pay the boatman or anything, right?"

Sam snorted, patting his pocket for his wallet.  "No, I wouldn’t worry about it."

The staircase was the most daunting of the tasks Sam had to complete to have Dean back.  They wouldn’t be able to keep in contact every second, and here was where he would have to trust in Persephone’s goodwill.  

"Okay, listen," he said, finding his flashlight again and pulling it out.  "Stay right behind me, don’t wander or anything, and if you get tired or whatever you need to tell me so we can stop."

"I’ll be fine," Dean said.  Sam turned on the flashlight.  Dean’s voice was fainter than he liked, but he couldn’t tell if it was because Dean was trying to gentle him, or because he was farther away, or because the Underworld wanted to trick Sam.  His throat felt like it was closing up.

He forced out a breath and said, "Okay."

The little flashlight bobbed its way up the stairs in front of Sam, and he spent the whole time wishing he could see Dean’s shadow.  He wished Dean had a light of his own, so that Sam could see it dancing around his feet, feel it almost-warm against his back, see the little bull’s-eye focus on the wall ahead of him.

Sam’s footsteps were the only ones he could hear.  Dean was still mostly silent: no breath, no tread, but he did bother to complain every minute or so.  Sam knew it was for his own benefit.  Dean griped about the darkness, how Sam couldn’t have bothered to bring more than one light, and about the steepness of the stairs.  

"Christ," he was muttering, "how did you get down these things without killing yourself?  I know you have unnaturally long legs, but this is just insane."

"Didn’t even notice," Sam said.

"Freak," Dean said.

The stairs spiraled up and up, roughly hewn and treacherous, and Sam kept his eyes on his feet.  He knew they had to smooth out eventually.  

"Sammy," Dean said, just when Sam was convinced they had to change soon.  "Sam, we gotta stop."

They had been climbing for half an hour, maybe, but Sam’s sense of time was fucked.  His legs ached, thighs and calves burning, and his breath was coming short and hard.

"Okay," Sam said, "okay," and leaned into the wall.  Dean’s hand settled on his hip, two fingers tucked into his belt loop, and he could sense Dean sagging on the stairs.

After a long moment, in which Sam’s racing pulse slowed a little, Dean said, "I don’t think I can do it, man."

Sam said, "No."

"I don’t—" Dean said again.  Sam felt the pressure of his head against the middle of his back as Dean leaned against him for support.  "I feel like I’m getting pulled down again."

"It wants to keep you," Sam said.  "But I need you more.  Just."  He reached back to find Dean’s arm and squeezed it tight.  "Keep going."

Dean was silent for another minute, but then he said, "All right. Let’s go."

Now Sam imagined he could feel the pull himself. It made his feet drag and his hands clumsy, and twice he almost dropped the flashlight. The stairs were uneven, catching at the toes of his boots. His breath was sticking uncomfortably in his throat, and he was out of things to say to Dean.

He wanted to close his eyes. The flashlight beam looked surreal, illuminating nothing, and moving so rhythmically up and up that Sam couldn’t tell if he was imagining it or not. At times he knew it was real, knew they were climbing, knew Dean was behind him, but then he would blink— open his eyes— and find the stairs different than he had seen them last, feel the air cold around him, and know he was alone.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy."

The stairs smoothed out. Now Sam was climbing cement. His legs felt like jello. His hands shook. He could feel sweat running down his spine, dampening his shirt at the small of his back, sticking his jeans to his thighs.

"Dean?"

No answer.

Sam halted. "Dean!"

"Yeah, Sammy." Dean’s voice sounded far away, echoing as if they were standing at opposite ends of an empty office hallway.

"Come on," Sam said.

"I’m coming, Sammy."

"You need me to wait?"

"No," Dean said wearily, like he was trying to raise his voice and couldn’t. Too tired. "No, I’m coming."

"Dean, I can wait."

"Sam, you need to go."

Sam nodded to himself, and prepared to start again. "Okay," he said. "Okay. You coming?"

"Yeah, Sammy."

Sam climbed. He felt along the wall with one hand and under his fingers it grew smooth. They were making progress.

"Dean?"

No answer. The steps were easier, Sam’s legs less tired: the Underworld was finally giving up on him. They couldn’t keep him. And god damn it, they couldn’t keep Dean either.

Gradually Sam realized air around him was growing warmer as well as brighter. He could see the steps above the one in front of him, beyond the glow of the flashlight, and the wall beside him. He could see the railing that seemed to materialize on the other side, and he reached for it. It was cold under his fingers, but no colder than metal in a basement would ever be. The stairs shifted from concrete to wood, creaking under his shoes.

Two more turns, and then Sam could see the glowing outline of the basement door above him. Another turn, this one sharper, almost ninety degrees, and Sam was feeling along the cracked wood for the knob.

"Dean?"

Still no answer. If it didn’t work, he could always go back. The worst Persephone could do was keep him there, and then at least he’d be with Dean.

He turned the knob. The door opened silently, and Sam’s senses were overwhelmed with the scent of beer and peanuts, the heat of the air conditioned bar compared with the chill below, the light in his eyes. He raised an arm to shield his face, flinching, and stepped up the last step into the hallway.

A woman came out of the bathroom just then, dressed in jeans and a too-large t-shirt for a sports team Sam didn’t know, her dirty brown hair piled in a knot on top of her head. She was flushed pink, startlingly alive, and she gave Sam a slanty-eyed, suspicious look as she took him in. Then she frowned, and her gaze darted past Sam to the door behind him.

She shook herself, turned, and walked away into the bar. Sam stood still, his heart fluttering in his throat.

"Dean?" he asked the hallway. He almost couldn’t hear himself over the sound of Boston on the jukebox, _I can’t lose now, there’s no game to play._

"Yeah, Sammy."

Sam turned— finally, _finally_ — and looked behind him. Dean stood there, beyond the frame of the door, on the linoleum, smiling.

"Hey," Sam said. _Everything in my life was leading me on._

Dean replied, "Hey." A look of uncertainty flashed across his face, only for a moment, and then he was opening his arms. Sam stepped toward him, into his space, and wrapped himself around his brother as tightly as he could. Dean’s embrace was warm now, firm, and Sam could feel the heat of his skin, his cheek against his own, his hands on Sam’s back.

Then Dean was letting him go, pushing him back at arm’s length to look him in the face.

"Welcome back," Sam said, finally allowing himself to smile.

  


  


  
**end.**   



End file.
